


the woods (they want your fear)

by Phoenix_Allura (Artemis_Autumn_Marie)



Series: Nix's Whumptober 2019 [1]
Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Broken Bones, Comfort, Crows, Hurt, M/M, Modern AU, Music, Not set in book or movie setting, Running, Sentient Forest, Unconsciousness, Vines, Wolves, modern au?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 23:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20897645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis_Autumn_Marie/pseuds/Phoenix_Allura
Summary: Whumptober Prompt: Shaky handsThomas and Minho want a nice, relaxing, camping trip. That is, until Thomas goes to find kindling.





	the woods (they want your fear)

Thomas stared at the trees around him.

How could he have gotten lost?

This was meant to be his weekend with Minho, alone, away from stress and everyone else.

But he’d had to go and get lost trying to find some sticks.

Thomas heard a noise behind him and spun, but there was nothing there.

Probably just an animal.

“Well, Thomas, you better trace your steps.” He muttered to himself, counting trees as he walked. Their camp couldn’t be too far from here…

He was absolutely, hopelessly lost.

Minho was going to be so worried. Worried, then mad. Thomas pulled out his phone again, but he still didn’t have any service and it was almost dead. For a second, he thought he heard the beginnings of a song, one Teresa had shown him, but it was gone before he could identify it.

It was all in his head, anyway. The forest was getting to him, and the near-dark, and the noises he kept hearing.

But he was going to be fine. This forest wasn’t that big. As he continued walking, Thomas tripped and fell flat on his face. Grumbling, he hauled himself up, turning to look at what he’d fallen over.

A record player.

Like, a gramophone record player, the kind he’d only seen in pictures.

It was spinning, still.

“You knocked into it, Thomas, of course it’s going to spin.” He whispered.

He kept walking.

Now that it was dark, he started searching for the few constellations that he knew to guide his way. Thomas blinked up into owls’ eyes when he looked up, hoping to find a constellation.

He stopped looking up.

(they were watching him.)

A while on, and he heard music.

Finally! There had to be people up there, somewhere. Thomas tilted his head to try and figure out which way to go, looking in vain for any sign of light--

The trees were dense, no light would get through now, and the music was too soft to make out where, exactly, he needed to go.

He’d just follow it best he could, and he’d be fine.

Above him, a crow called. Thomas shook his head, clearing it of the noise; he needed to be able to follow the music.

The music was the most important part here. If he could find people, he could find Minho. They’d spend the rest of the weekend at home, safe, and Thomas would be teased (‘Thinks he’s so bloody clever, Tommy does, but he gets lost on a five-minute walk for some kindling!’). Thomas smiled to himself, imagined the jokes they’d make and the way everyone would laugh, would make sure he was laughing, too, not being laughed at.

He lost himself in it.

(that was only one of his mistakes.)

Thomas kept walking forward, but the music didn’t seem to be getting any louder.

“Went the wrong way again, Thomas.” He mumbled. “You really need to stop that.”

Minho might be home now, worried and waiting…

Minho.

Minho would be looking for him, their friends would be looking for him.

He was going to be just fine. In fact, that music, it sounded like something Harriet and Sonya played at their parties. He just had to go back a little ways and then left from there.

(going right would have brought him right into a little nook where he might have slept, and Gally’s path in the morning; the Woods thought it imperative that he not go right.)

Thomas followed his own instructions, walking quickly. He wanted to get home, eat, and cuddle in bed with Minho. As he walked, blind in the dark save for the starlight, high and very far away, Thomas dreamed of the food he’d eat (he hadn’t eaten since breakfast; the Woods knew this.) and how Minho would see him, and slump with relief, and then hug him as though their bodies could fuse into one, and say, “Trying ta scare me, aren’t ya, shank?” and then lead him to bed and they’d sleep, simply sleep, wrapped up in each other, no worries or cares.

The crow called out again, and again Thomas ignored its warning.

Thomas returned to about where he’d first heard the music and began walking left.

As soon as it got even the slightest bit louder, Thomas cheered. He was that much closer to being home.

(it was a good thing he cheered.)

Thomas moved as quickly as he could through the dark underbrush.

Then, just as the rest of the noise of the forest was fading away, just as Thomas was focussing only on the music--CRACK!

Thomas jumped and landed bone-jarringly on the ground, head hitting a rock.

(the Woods were getting bored.)

(but they never wanted blood, only fear.)

When Thomas woke up, the music was gone, and his head was aching. He lifted himself into a sitting position and pressed at the aching spot. His fingers came away slightly sticky, so Thomas figured that somehow the bleeding had stopped. He’d be fine now, just a slight headache.

(crows, they say, are very smart animals.)

It was still dark, so Thomas couldn’t have been out for that long. He continued on the path he’d been on before.

After a few minutes, new music started playing. It was from the same direction as before, so Thomas kept on his chosen path. As he walked, he tried to figure out where the edges of the forest might be. The faint shadows around him kept shifting oddly.

He raised a hand to his head. Maybe he should find somewhere to sleep and stop for the night…

_ ‘Nooooo. Noooooo.’  _ Something was hissing near him, though--he didn’t know what type of snakes might be in this forest, so he had to keep moving.

The music was louder now, anyway. He’d be back with people soon.

Thomas kept walking. This path seemed clear enough, and he wouldn’t likely trip over anything else if he stayed on it.

(the Woods couldn’t have that.)

There was a low growl coming from the underbrush, just to his right.

Slowly, Thomas turned his head to look.

There was a pair of faintly glowing eyes, staring at him.

‘It’s just a wolf,’ He thought. ‘Most wolves don’t attack people, I’ll be fine.’

‘But what,’ Whispered that little treacherous part of his brain, ‘It’s one of the wolves that do attack people?’

Stomach uneasy and decision made, Thomas kept walking. Straight ahead. The wolf would be behind him before long. He heard the leaves rustling, but the wolf gave no other sign that it had left. Still, Thomas let out a soft sigh of relief.

He was safe.

He glanced over his shoulder. Just in case.

The wolf was right behind him. Stalking him.

He turned slightly, angling so he if he kept walking, he’d be off the path.

But what would be waiting?

The wolf came closer and Thomas took several steps backward, stumbling. It opened its mouth, and Thomas turned and  _ ran _ .

The crow called again, mournful now.

Thomas was off the path, faltering with each step. His heart moved in time with his burning legs, pressing forward, hoping he wouldn’t face wolves or foxes or owls or deer or moose or bear or anything because he couldn’t see, he couldn’t see, the trees were closing in and he couldn’t see and there were too many noises now and the music had changed it was like something out of a horror movie and the forest was hissing and cawing and growling and howling and whispering and it was alive and Thomas wanted to scream, he wanted to scream but he couldn’t, he couldn’t, he had to keep running, running, running, he had to find a way out, he had to find a way home, he needed to escape, but he couldn’t he didn’t know where he was he didn’t know what was following him he didn’t know what was ahead of him he didn’t know anything he had no way out.

The crow’s call cut through the rest of the noise, holding it at bay.

Thomas breathed.

One call, two calls, three calls, four calls.

In, hold, out. In, hold, out. In, hold, out. In, hold, out.

Thomas slowed enough to take in some detail of his surroundings: Birds absolutely covering the branches above him, the lone wolf still behind him, but farther away than it had been before, and a crow, perched on a bush-like shape in front of him, calling out. He stepped toward it.

And started running again. His footsteps were more careful, now, and he blocked out some of the noise.

Then the wolf had friends, and Thomas felt the owls’ eyes, and there was a tree with large enough branches to climb--

So Thomas climbed. He clung to the branches, hauling himself up as quickly as he could. It was cold up here, he was cold now, he was shivering. But still he ascended toward the stars, moving more slowly when he was out of reach of the wolves.

He would be safe up here until someone found him.

Which, Thomas reasoned, wouldn’t be too long. He’d be moving again as soon as daylight hit, so he’d be sure to run into someone. He found a place to curl into himself and tried to watch the stars, since he couldn’t see the ground.

He fell asleep instead, shivering, aching.

When he woke, he expected to see daylight.

There was no daylight.

Thomas was beginning to wonder if this was all a dream.

Then the crow cawed, right in his ear, and he knew it wasn't.

"Up or down?" He asked it, feeling rather foolish. It tilted its head at him and then flew to a lower branch, barely visible.

"Down it is," Thomas mumbled to himself. He pulled his coat tighter to his body; other than his clothes, he'd lost everything he'd had on him at some point during his run. Thomas carefully followed the crow back down the tree, jumping the last few feet. The wolves were gone, but so was the crow. Thomas cautiously found the track he’d left and began to follow them.

Or he would have, save for the fact that he hadn’t thought to check behind him.

(the Woods would let him be found, sooner or later.)

Thomas blacked out, his last memory the feeling of being grabbed tightly by something that should not be able to grab.

When Thomas came to for the third time (it was actually the sixth; he didn’t remember the others), he was shaking. Shaking, and tired, and aching, and alone. He was by the tree he’d been taken from (that he did remember) and the crow was watching him. He stood on wavering legs; the crow tapped the stick it was on and flew to a branch to continue watching him. Thomas picked up the stick and began walking slowly. In the soft morning light, the path he’d left was clear. The walk was long, and Thomas sat to rest more than he’d like to admit. He couldn’t quite remember where the vines had taken him, or why he’d been there, or what had happened, but his night been long and he was exhausted.

As he got closer to the path, Thomas thought he heard voices.

But it might be like the music. Just a trick. An illusion to give false hope.

“Minho, come on, we’ve been down that path already.” Newt was arguing with Minho. “He’s not there.” Thomas’s crow called and flew ahead rapidly, then back to Thomas. Thomas increased his speed; if it really was Minho, then he wanted to see him.

“Thomas is here, I know he is!” Minho was insistent, and Thomas knew for sure it was him then. He walked as quickly as he could, leaning more on his stick with each step he took.

“Thomas!” Minho and Newt turned to stare at him when he floundered through the last bush and onto the packed dirt.

“Thomas, what happened to you? You’re shaking!” Minho wrapped an arm around his waist, and Thomas leaned into him. “Shit, you’re freezing too. Thomas, stop that, let me look at your hands.” Thomas had been trying to bury himself in Minho’s side.

“His hands are the worst shaking.” Newt was there, too, right. “We’ve got to get him to a hospital. Tommy, can you walk?”

“We’re not making him walk, look at him! Call the others, I’ve got him.” Minho scooped Thomas up, being careful even in his haste. Thomas wrapped his arms around Minho’s neck, mindful of the odd pain in them.

“I’ve got you, baby, I’ve got you.”

“Don’t let him go to sleep, he might have a concussion!” Newt seemed very far away.

“‘At’s a myt’” Thomas mumbled, and he felt Minho chuckle.

“Still correcting you, Newt, even when he’s in space.” Thomas fell asleep with the warmth in his chest that he’d been imagining the day before. 

“You’re a real dumb shank, you know that.” Minho sat next to him on their bed. “Two hairline fractures in your wrist, head wound, badly sprained ankles, and psychological trauma. I swear, I’m not leaving you alone ever again.” Thomas shrugged.

“Sounds trust fine to me. I’m tired, Minho. Cuddle with me?” Minho pulled off his shoes and climbed under the covers, tugging Thomas half onto his lap. Thomas just hummed a bright tune and curled into his chest, already drifting off into happy dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! I'm doing Whumptober this year! I can't promise that they'll all be the same fandom, or that I'll even finish this month, but I'm going to write 31 of these if it kills me. (Hint: it won't.)  
Comment and tell me what you liked, and if there are any fandoms you'd like to see this month!  
As always,  
Phoenix


End file.
